


We're A Thousand Miles From Comfort

by blainedarling



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, M/M, OT5 Friendship, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blainedarling/pseuds/blainedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn didn't expect to make one good friend at university, let alone four. His boys – and, at the centre of it, Harry, who means so much more than he could possibly realise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're A Thousand Miles From Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Rather Be" by Clean Bandit ft Jess Glynne because it's the song I associate with my entire university experience in Edinburgh, for whatever reason. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction, fictional representations of real people, etc. etc.

“I think university is going to be a good experience for you.” Zayn turns his head from the window to look at his mum, a small smile playing on her lips as they turn off the motorway, heading towards the city.

“Break you out of your shell,” she adds, a touch quieter, a comment just for him and not also for his three sisters crammed into the backseat. None of them would have heard anyway, headphones jammed into their ears, the only sound coming from them the occasional huff as someone’s elbow jabbed into someone else’s ribs.

Zayn had protested that they really didn’t  _all_  need to make the trip up to Edinburgh with him – but since when would he win an argument against the women in the Malik family, honestly?

“Zayn.” He hums and turns back to staring out of the window. “Promise me you’ll try.” Zayn likes his shell. He likes sitting quietly in the corner of rooms and observing the world around him, without any pressure to participate. He likes curling up in coffee shops alone with a book or a sketchbook, as opposed to filling his time with some inane chatter about who’s sleeping with who, or who fancies who, or who’s not talking to who anymore because they really are a _bitch_.

“Of course, mum,” he replies finally. He’s more than prepared to lie through his teeth to see how her smile widens, her cheeks flushed with pride. Her little boy, all grown up and off to university. “My little boy, all grown up and off to university.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

There’s no heavy traffic to contend with when they make it into the city limits, Trisha even managing to navigate the packed car to Zayn’s home for the next year without screaming at the GPS system once. It feels as though the entire car lets out a collective sigh of relief as she cuts the engine, the five of them peering out of the window at the tall, nondescript building.

Zayn gets out first, feels like maybe he’s supposed to, grimacing as he feels a few drops of rain hit the back of his neck. He tightens his leather jacket around his body, stamping his feet to keep warm. It’s only September – he can only imagine how cold it’ll be come the winter.

Doniya snorts, flipping up the hood on her jacket and eyeing him with disdain. “You’re the one that chose to move to  _Scotland_  for uni,” she tells him pointedly, before moving to the boot of the car to find the lightest possible item to carry up to Zayn’s new room.

She slings the bag stuffed with a couple of pillows and a duvet over her shoulder and starts towards the beaming man with the clipboard at the front door, checking in the new students. Zayn watches her go and wishes, not for the first time, that he could somehow harness a little of her self-assurance. Just for today.

He throws his backpack on and stuffs his snapback over his head, even though he hears his mum tut about it from behind him. The four of them totter over to meet Doniya, laden with Zayn’s various belongings stuffed mostly into carrier bags and a suitcase that’s missing a wheel.

“Welcome to Edinburgh, Zayn Malik!”  
Zayn peers at the sticker on the front of the man’s shirt, which reads:  _Hello, my name is your first new buddy! (Phil)_.  He nods curtly, only speaking up to murmur a thank you when Phil hands him a set of keys – three, of differing sizes, on a small keychain.

“One for the outer door, one for your flat, and one for your room,” he explains, reminding him not to be late for the building introduction at six that evening before turning to the next student. Zayn has little to no intention of turning up for that, but his mum insists on putting a reminder on his phone for quarter to, all the same.

They meet a few other students on the stairs as they head up to the fourth floor, frazzled smiles and wary glances, parents with tears in their eyes and hands clasped tightly to the shoulders of their offspring. Zayn hazards a glance at his mum out of the corner of his eye, frowning at her.

“You’re not going to start crying too, are you?”  
Trisha scoffs, but she doesn’t deny it and he can see the dusting of pink on her cheekbones that hadn’t been there a moment before.

Zayn is hesitant as they approach flat 402, hands fumbling slightly with the keys. He hears Doniya sigh in exasperation behind him and doesn’t doubt that had he not managed to stick the damn thing into the lock then, she would have snatched them out of his hands and done it himself. The door creaks open, the corridor quiet save for the sound of chattering coming from behind the door with a number 2 pinned onto it.

“You’re 3,” Doniya says pointedly, poking him in the back with one of her sharp nails and ushering him inside.  
He moves forward sluggishly and unlocks the –  _his –_ door, propping it open with his foot as his family shuffle past him inside the cramped room to set down his things.

Cramped is an understatement, if he’s being honest. There’s a bed built into the wall that’s bigger than a single but certainly not a double, a desk lining the length of the wall by the window. That leaves just enough floor space for the five of them standing like sardines in a row, a little bathroom tucked into the corner.

“How cosy,” Trisha exclaims, beaming as she ushers the girls to one side so she can start making his bed for him.  
Zayn sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and tossing the backpack to the floor. “Mum, leave it. S’fine, I can make my own bed later.”  
“No, no,” she insists, picking up a bag that has a few kitchen basics packed into it, wrapped up in newspaper and bubblewrap. A pan, a bowl, a plate, a set of cutlery, a couple of mugs. “Go put these in the kitchen.”

Zayn shuffles out of the room dutifully, the crockery clinking in the bag that’s straining at the handles as it is. He pauses outside number 2 for half a second, picking up a male voice along with two female, all talking over one another and laughing. A floorboard creaks from within and he jumps, hastily carrying on into the kitchen at the end of the hall.

He sets the bag on the counter, flipping open cupboards to see that they’re almost all empty. One has a sticky label tacked to the front,  _Harry!_  written in neat, looping script on it. Zayn sneaks a look inside, observing a stack of odds and ends that is much like his own.

Grabbing his own sticker from the roll on the counter, he writes out his name with the marker pen, tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration. He adds in a little cartoon drawing of himself for good measure, complete with snapback and slightly surly expression, sticking it onto the cupboard next to Harry’s just as Waliyha walks in.

She snorts, setting her hands on her hips. “That’s one way to make friends,” she comments, gesturing to the drawing. “Mum said to put the kettle on.” She holds up a box of teabags.  
Zayn studies the contents of the bag. “I’ve only got two mugs.”

She shrugs and leaves him to unpack his things into the cupboard. His mum and other two sisters join them a few minutes later, Trisha giving an approving nod to the shared space before placing her hand against Zayn’s cheek. She is going to cry. And then Zayn’s going to cry and he  _really_ would rather not be crying when he meets his new flatmates and–

The door swings open and Zayn holds him breath, a pretty girl with long hair walking in. She gives him a bright smile and a wave. “Hi! I’m Gemma.”  
When Zayn doesn’t respond, Trisha elbows in the ribs. “Zayn.” Another jab to his ribs. He’s going to have bruises by the time this ordeal is over. “Nice to meet you.”

_Not so bad. One down._

The girl laughs, but not unkindly, grabbing a glass from the cupboard marked  _Harry_  and filling it with water. Zayn looks between the cupboard and her.  
“Harry’s my brother,” she explains, introducing herself to Zayn’s sisters, the ones in the same position as her.

_Not quite one, then._

Harry is the next one to join them, though, adding to what is becoming quite a crowded kitchen party by this point. He introduces himself with the same kind of bright eyed enthusiasm as his sister had, making a point to shake Zayn’s hand  _and_  compliment his hat. He’s not sure whether he wants to dislike him just on principle.

But he thinks it might be quite difficult to hate Harry, as he bounds around the kitchen, curls bouncing around his head, hugging Zayn’s sisters and mum as if he’s known them his whole life, while his own mum hovers a little behind him, rolling her eyes fondly. Not to mention where Zayn’s eyes have drifted to the length of his legs, encased in tight skinny jeans that do everything to highlight the tempting curve of his ass and the tops of his thighs. Or maybe that would be as much a reason to hate him.

Zayn spies a few tattoos peeking out from under the low necked black t-shirt Harry’s wearing, and he’s instantly intrigued. Intrigued and jealous – he’s been wanting tattoos for ages, but his mum wouldn’t let him. She’d already protested about the earring he’d gotten a year ago, a small silver hoop through his left lobe. Then he’d shaved the sides on his long hair and she’d hit him with a dish cloth in exasperation.

He rubs a hand absentmindedly over his forearm and stares at Harry’s tattoos, thinking of the stack of sketches he has of various designs, that his mum wouldn’t be able to stop him getting now. Now that he’s eighteen and has moved out.

Harry flashes him a lopsided grin and Zayn finds himself smiling back. Maybe his mum’s right. University is going to be a good experience for him.

***

It’s remarkable how quiet it is when the door clicks closed behind Trisha and the girls a few hours later. Having made sure Zayn’s shelf in the fridge was stocked up with enough food to at least last him his first week and that he remembered he could call  _anytime_ , they were gone, leaving behind little more than the scent of his sister’s perfume and the crease in his t-shirt where they’d hugged him too tight. Harry’s family had left earlier and, now, it’s quiet.

Until he hears the sound of a bass-heavy beat from next door – Harry’s room – accompanied by the boy himself singing along. Zayn sighs and looks around his room, giving the broken suitcase a nudge with his toe as though it might unpack itself.

He feels antsy, like his skin is prickling, trying to adjust to this new environment that he doesn’t know yet. This new person next door who listens to what sounds like Arctic Monkeys and can’t help but sing along. New  _people_ , he corrects as he hears the front door to the flat opening again. There are three other rooms still empty, something Zayn had been carefully ignoring. Harry is already a lot. He doesn’t know if he can take more, at least not yet.

Stuffing his wallet into the pocket of his coat, he grabs his keys (“please don’t lock yourself out on day one, sweetheart”) and heads out, giving the guy hiking a massive backpack into number 4 by himself little more than a glance on his way out. He’s already located the nearest supermarket, at the end of the block, not ten feet away from a triangle of strip clubs. Something his mum hastily ushered his sisters away from noticing, flashing Zayn a mild look of concern.

He buys a pack of cigarettes and doesn’t even get carded for them, liberation hitting his bloodstream with the first hit of nicotine when he lights it up on the street. He sways uncertainly, looking left and right, unsure where to go. He doesn’t know his way around, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to go back to that room. To unpack, to deal with Harry and backpack guy. To try and make friends.

Once he’s finished his fag, he decides to go right –  _away_  from the strip clubs – taking the small hill down. He passes a few boarded up shops, a cocktail bar, a tattoo parlor. He stops himself from going in, but he does file it away for future reference.

The curling lane opens out into a larger street, half of it pedestrianised and cobbled, tables spilling out from the restaurants and cafés. The sun’s just starting to peek out through the clouds from the earlier rain showers, waiters drying off seats as tourists and locals alike glance over menus.

Zayn’s never been abroad, but as he hops up onto the cobbles, he can imagine he’s in Italy, perhaps, or France. He looks up towards the castle, iconic against the grey clouds, and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay here.

***

Zayn loses track of how long he walks, tracing another hill up and ending up on a busier road, following street after street on instinct until he starts to get hungry and has to bring up maps on his phone to find his way back. It’s after seven when he unlocks his door, heading straight to the kitchen, scrubbing a hand over the light stubble on his jaw.

He hears Harry before he even opens the door, chattering away to the three boys sitting around the counter, not even looking where he’s tossing a pile of vegetables and noodles around in a wok with a wooden spoon. Harry pauses when he realises his audience’s attention has been diverted, brightening when he sees him.

“Zayn! You’re back.” He frowns. “Where have you been? You missed the building introduction. We got free stuff!” He pulls from his back pocket a pen with the logo of the housing coop sketched into the side.  
“I have pens, s’all good,” Zayn mumbles, grabbing a frozen pizza and inspecting the cooking instructions on the back.

Harry continues without missing a beat. “This is Lars, Stefan and Aidan.” The three boys at the counter give him a nod, before Lars – who Zayn recognises as backpack guy, even without the backpack – mumbles something about unpacking and slips out of the room before Harry can continue with whatever elaborate story he’d been telling when Zayn had walked in.

The other two follow his example, leaving Zayn alone in the kitchen with Harry as he politely tries to nudge him out of the way so he can put the pizza in the oven.  
“Not the most sociable bunch,” Harry muses and Zayn wonders if that included him.

Zayn manages to get Harry to sidestep without having to actually whack him in the leg, swinging the oven door shut and setting a timer so it doesn’t burn. When he stands upright again, Harry grins at him, a blindingly white smile.

“What are you doing tonight?”

***

The week becomes exactly that, Zayn Harry’s accomplice as he works his way through the list of freshers’ events that he keeps folded up in the back pocket of his sinfully tight jeans. Zayn doesn’t even know what he did with his own copy of that list – binned it, probably, or perhaps he’ll find it squashed underneath a sneaker in a few months’ time.

Harry, on the other hand, has it highlighted in varying degrees of importance, the page creased and battered by Tuesday. Zayn had vaguely planned to spend his freshers’ week trying to orient himself with campus and maybe looking at some of the suggested reading for his course. Harry, it seemed, planned on doing absolutely everything. With Zayn. Whether he wants to or not.

He doesn’t  _not_  want to. It just hadn’t been his plan, that’s all.

But he goes; lets Harry wake him up before eight in the morning to get to the zoo even though it’s drizzling and most of the animals are curled up, out of sight, in their shelters sleeping. He goes on ghost tours even though the under passages smell like piss and spilt beer, and pub crawls even though each one is more crowded and claustrophobic than the next. He goes to a junk sale and lets Harry spend an hour traipsing through the piles upon piles of clutter to find, what he declares is, The Perfect Saucepan.

Every evening is spent with a drink in his hand, Zayn hovering on the edges of packed out clubs as Harry dances with girls, boys, anyone who’s drawn in by his boundless energy and flirtatious smile. Zayn doesn’t dance, as much as Harry pleads, he just stands. Shuffling from foot to foot and chewing on the thin black straw in his vodka coke until he has to spit little bits of plastic out of his mouth.

Some nights, Harry will appear just to say goodbye, waving at him before leaving with whoever has their arm tight around his waist that night. Zayn waves back, abandons his drink and leaves, too, wondering idly to himself on the walk back to his flat why he’s not happier for his friend for pulling.

Other nights, Harry leaves with Zayn, instead. They detour to El Falafel and wolf down toasted wraps, Zayn tossing napkins at Harry when sauce dribbles down his chin and all he can do about it is giggle.

They get back to the flat and Harry hovers outside his door and Zayn realises at the back of his slightly drunk brain that he could probably follow him inside and he’d let him. But he doesn’t. He says goodnight and pushes Harry into number 2, then goes back to number 3 by himself.

The other three guys they live with come and go – whether Harry’s tried to rope them into his scheduling, too, Zayn doesn’t know. At any rate, he doesn’t seem particularly put out that they’ve made their own plans and friends outside of their flat. Zayn certainly doesn’t. He has Harry and that’s one more friend than he’d expected to make in his first week.

On Sunday, he turns down Harry’s suggestion to go the Botanical Gardens. It’s raining, again, and Zayn feels like he needs some quiet and time to himself before uni starts for real the next day. For a moment, he thinks Harry’s going to insist, but instead he just nods, wishes him a good day and takes off by himself, beanie stuffed over his curls. Before Zayn goes to bed that night, he finds a postcard from the gardens stuffed under his door.

_Missed you! H. x_

***

Zayn doesn’t know what to expect from his first official class as a university student, doesn’t even really know what he should bring. So he just stuffs a pen into his pocket and tucks a ruled notebook under his arm, taking off into the cool morning air, sleep still puckering the corner of his eyes.

The lecture theatre is already packed out when he arrives – and the class doesn’t start for another five minutes – so he takes the first free seat he can see. Four rows from the back, on the aisle, next to a brown haired boy in a denim jacket. The boy smells faintly of cigarette smoke and what he thinks might be weed, a pack of Pall Malls outlined in the breast pocket of his jacket.

He looks up from his phone and gives Zayn a sort of lopsided smile. “Any idea what this course is about?” He gestures to the front screen, where the lecturer has pulled up a powerpoint entitled  _Introduction to Linguistics._

Zayn shrugs, uncapping his pen to doodle idly on the front of his notebook. “Nah. My tutor said it would go well with English.”  
The boy snorts. “Dr Fraser?” Zayn nods. “Yeah, mine too. Said the same thing.” He stretches out and yawns. “Ah, well. Nothing counts ‘til third year anyway, right?”  
Zayn grins. “Right.”

The lecturer raps his knuckles off the table at the front, pulling the packed room of a hundred-odd, bleary eyed freshers to attention. By the end of the class, Zayn has a sore wrist from trying to write down all the deadlines and information he spews out, while the boy at his side sits with his hands stuffed into his pockets, smacking a piece of gum between his teeth.

After the class, he learns that the boy’s name is Louis, and in return for Zayn letting him copy out that information at a later date and a more leisurely pace, he bums him a fag outside. They sit on the top of the steps down, looking across George Square, the welcome sun beating down on the cobbles. Zayn smokes in silence while Louis talks, which works for both of them.

They make sure to sign up for the same tutorial so they can, as Louis so graciously puts it, suffer together, and pile into Zayn’s tiny little room when they get their first piece of work to do for it. Zayn makes them tea with his two mugs and finds some biscuits in his cupboard that have only gone slightly soggy.

Introduction to Linguistics, they soon learn, involves a lot of sitting and making noises. Louis is making a sound akin to gagging from the back of his throat and insisting that’s a velar when Harry knocks on the door, the three slow raps followed by two shorter ones that Zayn has learned to recognise as his flatmate.

Zayn opens the door to let him in, Harry swaying on his heels as his gaze flicks over his shoulder to where Louis is sprawled over the bottom of his bed, still choking away.

“That’s disappointing,” Harry muses, pushing past him into the room without invitation. He sits himself on the desk chair, spinning this way and that as he regards Louis, and then Zayn, again. “I thought something more fun was going on in here what with all the hacking and the gagging.”  
Louis finally seems to acknowledge Harry’s presence in the room and looks up from his notes. “Zayn? Who’s this charming fellow?”

They end up abandoning their books and going out to eat because Louis says he can’t think when he’s hungry. Harry tags along because – well, because he’s Harry, and because neither Louis or Zayn try to stop him. Louis says two of his flatmates are going to join them, the two groups convening at Nandos on the bridge.

Liam, the bigger of the two, makes a point of properly introducing himself to both Zayn and Harry, while Niall just flashes them a wave and hustles them inside to get a table. Between the four of them, they talk enough that Zayn can quite happily fall into silence and just watch the other boys, only chipping in when there’s some disagreement as to how much chicken is _too_  much chicken.

“You okay?” Harry’s hand curls over his shoulder, his face tucked close to his ear to murmur to him.  
Zayn turns to him and nods, honestly, eyes catching on the way Harry’s mouth is turned up at the corner. “I’m good,” he says and grins.

Harry slings an arm around his shoulders, his hand falling down over Zayn’s chest as he pulls him close. “Good.” He leans their heads together, watching as the other three boys fire balled up bits of napkin at each other with their straws. “Feel like I’ve barely seen you this week,” Harry adds. Zayn can feel his breath hot against his temple when he tilts his head.

“I’m sorry.” Zayn frowns. “I needed to acclimatise a little, you know?”  
“You don’t need to apologise, just missed you.” Harry pulls back some, but leaves his arm across the back of Zayn’s chair.  _Missed you! H. x_  “I think I’m going to get a new tattoo next week. Wanna come?” He waggles his eyebrows.  
Zayn rubs a hand over his forearm and nods. “Yeah. Definitely.” He starts as he feels his phone vibrating against his leg, slipping away from the table to take the call outside. “Hey mum.” He smiles.

 _“Zayn! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I didn’t– I didn’t want to call_ too _much. Got to give you your space. My big boy. How are things? Are you okay? Have you made friends?”_

Zayn chuckles at her onslaught of questions, looking through the glass door to where he can see the four boys tucked around their table. “I’m good, mum. Things are good. Better than I expected,” he admits, tucking his chin into his collar of his jacket as a gust of wind races down the street. “Can I call you back in a couple hours? I’m just having dinner with the lads.”

He knows she’ll like that, the idea of Zayn sitting around with a group of friends, not even quite two weeks since she left him in Edinburgh. The best part is it isn’t even a lie to placate her, something he’s done more times than he cares to count.

 _“Of course you can. I love you, Zayn.”  
_ Zayn smiles. “Love you, too.”

***

Somewhere in the back of Zayn’s consciousness, he’s becoming aware of a very loud noise. He groans and tries to shove his head further under the pillow where it’s already burrowed, his leg curling up under the blankets where his toes are cold. Maybe, if he just ignores it, the noise will go away, he reasons, still more asleep than he is awake.

But it doesn’t go away, it keeps wailing on, persistent and loud and  _annoying_ , making his ears ring with it, even under the pillow. On top of that, there starts up a banging on his door, an incessant pounding.

“Zayn!  _Zayn!”_

Zayn lets out a stream of grumbled expletives before finally pulling his head out from his warm cocoon, wincing as the sound hits his ears without any kind of muffler.  
“Zayn, get up and out here before you fry to a crisp!”

It’s Harry – and logic tells him that the sound is a fire alarm, although he’s never heard it before so he can’t know for sure. He drags himself up to his feet, oversized t-shirt baggy against his frame as he hitches his joggers up a little and slopes towards the door, only just remembering to grab his keys.

“Finally,” Harry huffs out when he opens the door. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, the bottom swaying around his calves, his feet shoved into a pair of Converse. He doesn’t appear to be wearing much else and Zayn hopes that for the sake of his balls, he’s at least got some boxers on.

“Didn’ have to wait,” Zayn slurs out as he slopes out of the door behind Harry into the corridor, where other similarly bleary eyed students are slugging their way out of the building.  
“Of course I did. What if you’d burned in there? It would have been on my conscious for the rest of my life, Zayn. Besides, everyone’s supposed to have a fire buddy. Which you would _know_  if you’d come to the building introduction.”

Zayn makes an incoherent huffing noise under his breath. This is all too many words for – he glances at the clock in the downstairs reception as they head outside into the chilly air – four in the morning. “Someone probably just burned toast,” he grunts, sticking close to Harry as they congregate with the rest of their building outside the gates to the art college on the other side of the road.

Harry clicks his tongue off the backs of his teeth. “You can never be too careful.”

Zayn doesn’t reply, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as the cool air gets to his skin, making goosebumps race over his arms. His bare toes curl against the pavement, a full bodied shudder rippling down his spine.

“Come here,” Harry murmurs, and that’s all the warning Zayn gets before he tugs him in under his blanket, and against his bare chest. “Body heat’s the best way to keep warm.” Zayn has to agree when he feels the warmth spreading out of Harry’s skin into his body.

Later, when he thinks on it, he’ll blame it on the fact that he wasn’t fully conscious at the time. That’s what he’ll give himself as a reason for the fact that he wrapped both arms around Harry’s bare torso and buried his face into his collarbone, letting his friend completely envelope him in the blanket. All anyone else would have been able to seen of him was his feet, tucked next to Harry’s.

Harry, for his part, doesn’t seem at all perturbed by Zayn clinging to him like his human hot water bottle, not even when Zayn lifts a hand and starts tracing the outlines of some of his tattoos.

There’s more than there had been when they’d first met – the two of them had been to a small tattoo parlor on the other side of campus a few times now. Whenever their bank balances weren’t creaking, they would spend a little and get a new swirl of ink of their skin. Zayn has yet to tell his mum about his own, although he’ll barely be able to hide them – especially not the large  _zap!_  design that coats his right forearm.

“Addictive, isn’t it?” Harry had said to him after his first one, his grandfather’s name in Arabic on his chest. Zayn was still riding the buzz beneath his veins, craving a cigarette on top of it.  
 _Yeah._  He’d nodded.  _Addictive._

“Zayn.” Harry ducks his head and bites the top of Zayn’s ear with his teeth gently. “Zayn, it’s stopped. We can go back inside.”  
Zayn sighs and consents to loosening his vice-like grip on Harry enough that they can walk back towards the building. “Thanks for not letting me burn.” He yawns.  
Harry chuckles. “‘Course.”

***

Zayn never used to take a lot of naps – mostly just because anytime he tried at home, he’d get woken up within about five minutes by his mum, telling him to stop being lazy, or his sisters, telling him to come do something fun and stop acting like a sloth. But university, he quickly finds, is all about naps.

During the morning and the late afternoon, the flat hums with some kind of noise at all times. Music from someone’s room or clinks of cutlery in the kitchen or someone on the phone in the hallway. But come about two, or three, in the afternoon, all noises cease, and the flat seems to take a collective nap.

Harry usually comes through to Zayn’s room after he’s woken up, sometime before five, shirtless with sleep in the corners of his eyes, waking him up in the process. He’ll face plant Zayn’s bed and fall asleep for another five minutes and then start rambling about something that happened to someone, giving Zayn time to slowly wake up.

When he wakes up from his Friday nap, though, it’s of his own accord – or, perhaps, in response to the sound of Harry singing next door. Harry sings all the time, this is nothing unusual, but it’s a Friday which means if he’s singing, he’s getting ready to go somewhere.

Zayn tugs his phone out from under his pillow and unlocks it.

_56 new message(s) from Idiots (group)_

He skims most of it, the only bit he needs to pay any attention to that he, along with Harry, are supposed to be meeting the other lads in a half hour. He stares down at where he’s wearing a sweatshirt and boxer briefs, still under his duvet.

Zayn [7:06pm] _We’ll be late.  
_ Harry [7:06pm] _We will? I’m nearly ready.  
_ Zayn [7:07pm]  _I just woke up.  
_ Liam [7:08pm]  _Typical  
_ Louis [7:10pm]  _You had one job, Harold.  
_ Niall [7:11pm] * _Beer emoji*_

Harry and Zayn are late, but they’re not  _that_  late – not so late that Zayn thinks the six penalty shots of vodka Louis has lined up for them are really fair. He’s going to protest, point out that he hasn’t even had a chance to sit down yet, where they’re grouped around a small table at the back of the bar. But then Harry’s knocking back his three with an admirable determination and now it’s four against one and he doesn’t stand a chance.

Starting the night on vodka shots is their first mistake, Louis inflicting a similar form of punishment on Liam and Niall just because and then ordering some for himself too. The shots settle hot into Zayn’s empty stomach, firing through his bloodstream and making his head swim.

He switches into a Jack and coke as soon as Louis will let him, as if that will somehow sober him up where he’s dangerously tipsy for so early in the night. He feels himself zoning out of the other boy’s conversation, leaning back against his chair and tracing patterns in the condensation on the side of his glass with his nail.

“Yes!” Louis yells, snapping Zayn out of his trance, smacking his hand against the table and making the empty glasses wobble.  
“Alright, I’ll tell them we’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Niall turns back to his phone and taps out a message, his tongue stuck out in concentration at the bright screen.

Zayn frowns, turning to Harry and cocking his head in question. It tips a little further than he’d intended and he wincing as he cricks his neck. “Where we going?” he mumbles, rubbing at his neck and downing the rest of his glass.  
“Paaaaaarty!” Harry replies, shimmying his body as best as he can where he’s still sat down. “Newington. A couple of third years Niall knows.”

Zayn groans. Parties mean people, people he doesn’t know, and crowds. He wonders if the boys would notice if he slipped back to the flat and just ordered a Dominos.  
“Nuh uh.” Harry wags a finger at him. “I know that look. You’re coming with us. Who else is going to help me get back, otherwise?”  
Zayn grinds his teeth, but let’s himself be tugged up from the booth and out into the street.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as they head towards the party, passing under the bridges as they near the bottom of the Cowgate. Harry bumps at his shoulder as they walk, Zayn not paying much attention to anything. Until he stops, looking up at the wall on in front of him. There’s always graffiti down here, random squiggles and marking that don’t seem to mean much or have much conviction behind them.

But on the wall before him, an entire artwork has sprung up, a boy with a hood up sitting crosslegged, colours swirling out from the black and white painting, as if touches added later by someone else. A mural in progress, maybe by different artists from across the city.

“Zayn?” Harry touches his shoulder gently. “You alright, mate?”  
He nods, licking his lips and finally tearing his eyes away from the mural to look at Harry. He knows he’s a little drunk, knows the grin on his lips must look ridiculous. “I’m all good.” He giggles. “Promise.”

Harry slings his arm around Zayn’s waist as they keep walking. “Didn’t know you were into art.”

Zayn shrugs, looking down at their feet as their legs swing out with no particular rhythm, hips bashing where they can’t even seem to match each other’s steps. “Yeah, y’know. Nothing serious. Just like, street art and stuff. S’cool.”  
“Every done any yourself?”  
Zayn snorts. “I wish, man. I wanted to spray paint my room at home but my mum said she’d chop my hands off if I tried.”

Harry ruffles his hand through where Zayn’s hair is in loose waves over one side of his head, in lieu of a response.

The party is loud when they arrive and the alcohol is wearing off some, Zayn hanging back while the other boys push into the throng of people. It smells like booze and sweat, but he manages to find the kitchen, and Louis with it.

“Did you bring?” He nods to the bottle of vodka in Louis’ hands.  
Louis smirks and puts a finger to his lips. “Whoever’s it is will be too drunk to notice,” he reasons, pouring a healthy amount into a cup and topping it up with some coke, before filling another for Zayn.

They clink plastic cups and then Zayn spies a bowl of Doritos on the opposite counter. He hops up onto the island and digs in, licking cheesy powder from his fingertips. If he thought Louis had done well with his alcohol snaffling, Harry finds him when he’s picking the crumbs from the bottom of the bowl, flashing a bottle of Bacardi at him before grabbing his wrist and pulling him down from the counter.

“You smell like cheese,” Harry comments, looking back at him and wrinkling his nose a little. He leads him into someone’s bedroom, where there’s a group of people sprawled out across the room, some on the bed, others on the floor. And then there’s Liam, spinning around on the desk chair and mumbling incoherently under his breath.  
“Ring of fire,” a dark haired girl sitting on the floor announces, spreading the cards out face down around the cup.  
Harry pulls him down to sit next to him against the wall. “We’ll share,” he murmurs, taking a preemptive sip from the bottle before passing it to Zayn.

If he’d been sobering up before, he’s certainly drunk again by the time the game ends. He loses track of the rules quickly – he and Harry just pass the bottle back and forth and take a swig every time someone takes a go, and other times besides, regardless of when they’re actually supposed to be drinking.

Liam eventually stops spinning and just leans his head against the desk, making little groaning noises every now and again that no one pays much attention to. Louis ends up drinking the King’s Cup and Zayn has to hide his face into Harry’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to watch the disgusting concoction dribbling down onto his shirt. They lose track of Niall but he appears at the point at which the game has descended at just flicking playing cards at one another, claiming he has the Best Idea Ever.

“Get your coats, lads, we’re going into the mouth of hell,” he booms, stamping his feet against the floor for good measure.  
“That sounds unpleasant,” Zayn deadpans, feeling more than seeing Harry giggle against the top of his head.  
Niall whines. “C’mon! Arthur’s Seat, we’re going up Arthur’s Seat. We haven’t been yet, and if we do it now, we won’t feel the cold so much!”

Zayn doesn’t get the significance of mouth of hell until Liam, who’s significantly perkier after his little nap against the desk, explains to him in painstaking detail about the hill being an extinct volcano as they trudge their way towards Queens Driveway.

Even with the alcohol keeping the chill out of their bones, it’s  _cold_ , bitingly so, and that’s before they even start going up. Liam and Niall storm ahead with determination, Louis meandering along with Harry and Zayn as they pick over the grass.

“Stop!” Harry squeals suddenly, bouncing up and down on the spot. “Stop, stop, hedgehog!”  
Louis rolls his eyes. “It is not, Haz, it’s just dirt or grass.” He pokes it with his toe and the little spiky lump shuffles along a few steps. “Shit!” Louis yells.

“Hello buddy,” Harry coos, dropping to the ground and flattening himself onto his stomach so he’s almost nose-to-nose with the little creature, that’s frozen in place.  
“Leave him alone.” Zayn frowns. “He’s probably terrified of all the loud noises and big people.”

Harry frowns at him. “I’m being perfectly friendly.” He gently taps the top of one of the hedgehog’s spikes with his finger and winces as it pricks. Zayn just sighs and starts walking again, following after Liam and Niall where they’re silhouettes up ahead.

Harry and Louis catch up to him not long after, the five of them heading onto the dirt path and starting to stagger their way up the steep incline towards the crags.

“You know, this isn’t  _actually_  Arthur’s Seat,” Liam points out, the only one out of the group who isn’t red faced and panting from the hike. “Arthur’s Seat is over there.” He points into the darkness. “This bit is actually called the– Oi!”  
Louis doesn’t look at all sorry for smacking him over the head. “Deserved that,” he says pointedly, huffing out a huge breath.

Zayn nearly loses his footing repeatedly, his stomach lurching each time, like slipping on the stairs. There’s a steep drop down the side of the crags, and he doesn’t much fancy taking a topple down the side of that anytime tonight.

They make it to the top without injury or disaster though, the five of them huddling together and looking out over the lights of the city. Louis pulls out a joint he’d rolled earlier and offers it up to the boys, all nodding eagerly, except Liam who declines but is happy to act as a wind barrier so he can light it up.

It’s a welcome source of heat, the smoke Zayn draws into his lungs, sweeter than his usual fags, stretching a wide, lazy grin out over his lips.  
“Beautiful,” Harry mumbles, almost as though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, before reaching for the joint to take from Zayn, taking his own hit.

They fall into an uncharacteristic silence for the five boys, passing around the joint until it’s reduced to a stub, and looking down onto Edinburgh. The distant sound of sirens reach their ears every now and again, the wind loud where it races past their ears.

“Successful night, lads, wouldn’t you say?” Louis looks around the group.  
Zayn stuffs his face into the collar of his sweatshirt. “Don’t say that, we still got to get down this bloody thing.” But he grins, flicking his eyes between the boys. His boys.

 _Yeah._  Successful night, Zayn’d say.

***

Zayn wakes up early, far earlier than he should when his head didn’t hit the pillow until after three that morning. But his stomach is growling at him insistently, twisting him up into knots, and– Right. He never actually ate anything more than Doritos last night. He remembers putting up a protest to Harry about calling in at Palmyra on their way home, who might have given in – but the other boy had been shivering so hard that Zayn had prioritised getting him into the warmth over his hunger.

He groans and rolls out of the bed, tugging a sweatshirt on over his briefs, not really expecting to encounter anyone else in the kitchen, anyway. The contents of his shelf of the fridge consist of a little milk that’s probably gone sour and a couple of cans of beer. The freezer proves at least a little more fruitful, Zayn depositing the remainder of a bag of curly fries onto a baking tray and shoving it into the oven.

Rather than sit and stare at the thing for the half hour they were going to take to cook, he wanders down to number 2 and raps hard on the door. He hears shuffling, but no footsteps, so knocks again, louder.

“Haz, c’mon,” he whines, resting his head against the doorframe and trying to ignore the gentle throbbing at the back of his skull.  
The door clicks open after a moment, Harry with his duvet over his head, his sad face just visible, curls in his eyes. “I am but a corpse,” he mumbles mournfully and then retreats back to his bed, letting Zayn follow him in.

Zayn frowns. He knows Harry hungover – grumpy, melodramatic more often than not. He’s held back his hair while he throws up and sat with him until the shakes subside. But as Harry coughs violently, his face flushed as he curls up into a ball on the bed, Zayn can tell this isn’t just a hangover.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, kneeling down at the side of the bed and touching the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”  
Harry’s eyes flutter closed. “Freezing, though.” He licks his dry lips. “Fever, I think.”

Zayn nods in agreement, straightening Harry’s duvet around him a little and then getting up to go into the bathroom. He rifles through the small cabinet in there, digging out a packet of cold and flu tablets and fills a glass with water.

Harry obligingly sits up so long as to take the medicine before sinking back down. Zayn gets up and the other boy’s hand grabs his wrist, curling around it tightly. “Please,” he says, his eyebrows pinched into a frown.

Zayn shushes him gently, leaning down to kiss his burning forehead. “I’ll be back, promise.” He leaves the door propped open so Harry won’t have to get up again and slips to the kitchen, boiling the kettle. He makes a cup of tea for himself, a mug of hot water with honey and a slice of lemon for Harry. He considers throwing in a splash of whisky for good measure, but decides against it.

Harry looks suspiciously at the mug he’s handed, having managed to prop himself up into a position where he won’t just tip the scalding liquid all down himself. “Where did you source this from?” he asks, with one eyebrow raised, poking at the lemon slice.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “I’ll buy whoever’s it was a whole new lemon later. Just drink up and be quiet.”  
“Don’t like being quiet,” Harry mumbles into the rim of his mug but does what he’s told.  
“I know you don’t.” Zayn smiles wryly.

He stays with Harry for the rest of the day, bringing him food a little later, a mismatch picnic of (slightly burnt) curly fries and some tomato soup. Zayn adds the latter to his mental shopping list and wonders vaguely if he should feel worse about stealing food from his flatmates.

Harry falls asleep with his head pillowed against Zayn’s torso, the blankets cocooned around his body. Zayn just lies with him for a while, carding his fingers absentmindedly through Harry’s hair and noting with some satisfaction that Harry’s stopped shivering and his body is cooling down.

Niall sends them a message late into the afternoon asking if they want to come round to Turner and hang out, Zayn declining for the both of them and snapping a photo of Harry where he’s still asleep. Zayn’s pretty sure he can feel a patch of drool against his sweatshirt.

Zayn [4:34pm]  _He’s got the cold. Who’s idea was it to go up a fucking extinct volcano in the middle of the night??  
_ Liam [4:36pm]  _Niall’s.  
_ Louis [4:36pm]  _Niallller.  
_ Niall [4:42pm]  _Feel better, Harry._

Zayn snorts out loud and tosses his phone back to the floor, the sound of it hitting the carpet with a dull thud stirring Harry awake. He blinks up at Zayn blearily, sleep clinging to the inner corners of his eyes.  
“Shit, sorry, babe.” Zayn gives him a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

Harry wraps his arm tighter around Zayn’s waist and nuzzles his face into his chest. “Alright,” he replies, his voice rough. “Thanks for looking after me.” His hand slips up under Zayn’s sweatshirt, fingers fitting over the curve of his ribs.

Zayn opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again, his heart inexplicably stuttering a little in his chest. Before he can think how to reply, Harry’s breathing has evened out again, snuffling in his sleep. He tips his head back against the wall behind and closes his eyes for a moment.

He only opens them again when he hears his phone buzz on the floor and he cranes his head down to read the message from the lock screen.

Louis [4:51pm]  _Have fun playing nurse ;)_

Zayn pretends not to know what Louis means by that.

***

Zayn doesn’t make it back to his room before Sunday evening, the two boys spending the rest of their weekend, once Harry’s awake, with Netflix pulled up on his laptop. They don’t talk about the fact that they’re never not touching – Zayn’s hands in Harry’s hair, Harry’s under his sweatshirt, against his bare skin, up to his ribs or down to his hip. Harry’s face against the crook of his neck, their ankles tangled together at the other end of the bed.

They don’t talk about it and maybe that’s for the best.

Harry walks Zayn to his class on Monday, before he goes to the library to write the essay he’d meant to work on over the weekend. Louis is waiting for Zayn on the steps outside, a smoke in one hand and a takeout cup of tea in the other. He cracks a grin when he sees them together, stubbing out his cigarette and walking down to meet them.

“Feeling better?” He asks Harry.  
Harry nods, touching Zayn’s arm. “I was well taken care of.”  
Louis smirks. “I bet you were.”  
Zayn resists the urge to slam his fist into Louis’ mouth just so he’ll shut up.

Harry seems unperturbed by Louis’ comment, giving them both a quick hug, hand lingering on Zayn’s lower back a moment longer than perhaps necessary. He starts towards the library, Louis calling after him. “Keep your Thursday night free! And rest your voice!”

If Harry’s as confused by these orders as Zayn is, he doesn’t let on, shooting them a thumbs up in acknowledgement and heading across the square.

“What’s happening Thursday?” Zayn asks as Louis slings an arm around his shoulders.  
Louis ignores his question entirely, replying with one of own, instead. “You and Harry, eh?”  
Zayn huffs and shrugs off Louis’ arm. “No. Shut up.”  
He stomps off ahead while Louis cackles gleefully a few paces behind him.

***

Thursday turns out to be karaoke, Zayn’s immediate response to say he’s busy. Doing something. Anything, that is not going to karaoke. But Harry looks like he might cry, big green eyes turning on him. He’s got his curls pushed back with a green headscarf today, green like those eyes, his black shirt half open even though it’s nearly November and their flat isn’t all that warm.

“You have to come,” Harry says emphatically. “We won’t make you sing if you don’t want to. Although, I’ve heard you in the shower, Zayn, you’re really good and I’m sure if you just put your mind to it, you could even–”  
“Okay, okay!” Zayn groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Just shut up,” he grumbles, his cheeks tinging pink as Harry exclaims triumphantly and tackles him into a hug.

They start the night at Brass Monkey, the five of them curled up on one of the big sofa beds in the back room. Beers in hand and lamenting about the fact that there’s snow forecast for the following week. Not for the first time, it hits Zayn how comfortable he feels around these four boys. Four boys he’s only know a few months, but who fit around him in such a way that he can’t imagine not having them in his life.

He rests his head against Harry’s shoulder in silence, content just to sit and observe as the boys talk. Harry’s hand comes to rest at the back of his neck, fingers scratching at the short hair at the nape of his neck. He needs to get the sides shaved short again. He blows a puff off air up, the longer locks fluttering. Maybe a trim, too.  
“I love your hair,” Harry murmurs, as if reading his mind. “Especially when it’s all falling down like this.”

Zayn rubs his cheek into Harry’s shoulder in response. He doesn’t know what this thing is between them – whether it’s purely platonic, whether Harry feels something more. Whether he feels something more; he’s not even sure he’s figured that out yet.

Because Harry’s Harry – Harry, who can bat his eyelashes at someone and have them take him home just like that. Who charms everyone and their mother, and seems so inherently sure of himself that sometimes it’s intimidating to Zayn. And Zayn, well. Zayn’s just an anxious virgin who will kiss someone in a club for an hour but never quite have the guts to ask them whether they want to go somewhere, let alone for a phone number. Who’s never had a boyfriend, or an anyone – unless you counted his “girlfriend” in Year 9 when he’d figured out that he liked boys and had panicked.

Zayn’s not sure he’s ready to think about it, yet. Not properly. He casts his gaze further afar, to pull his mind away from the fingers at the top of his spine that are enough to send goosebumps hurtling across his skin.

There’s a group of people at the next bed over, Zayn watching in amusement as a blonde girl around his age yells at the guy next to her. He can’t hear exactly what she’s saying over the music, but she sounds as though she’s almost hoarse from it, and he catches words here and there about not being “such a fucking cliché.” Another guy, by her side, places a hand on her arm, and she relaxes some, letting out a breath and leaning back.

Nothing but a touch, to calm her down. He wonders if he’s her boyfriend, an inherent synchronicity between them. If that’s all anyone is ever really searching for, the ability to convey more in a touch, in a glance, than in words themselves.

Harry’s hand moves, brushing over his shoulders and Zayn looks up.

_Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it._

“Ready to go?”

***

The bar is packed out for karaoke and if Zayn had been considering singing (he hadn’t) he certainly wouldn’t now. Louis signs himself and Niall up straight away and even Liam puts his name down, which surprises Zayn until he tells him about how he’s been singing since he was a kid, with a shrug that makes it seem like no big deal. Even though he’s good, he’s  _really_ good, and even Louis and Niall aren’t that bad, even though they fall off the stage halfway through and their dance moves make Zayn hide behind his hands.

Harry tries to tempt him into putting his name down with every drink he sets down in front of him, suggesting they do a duet, even. But Zayn says no, big green eyes and all, and after a while, Harry stops pushing. He likes singing, but in a contained environment, not with a very drunk and honest audience of this size. Zayn doesn’t think any amount of alcohol could make him swallow down his nerves about that and get up on that stage.

Harry goes up last out of their group, his curls free from the scarf he’d been wearing earlier which is now looped into one of the belt hoops of his jeans. Louis starts wolf-whistling loudly when the backing track starts up, none of them having known Harry’s song selection in advance.  

Zayn wishes he’d known, perhaps it would have allowed him to be a little more prepared when Harry starts growling out  _I Just Wanna Make Love To You_ , complete with unnecessarily lewd hip rolls, his hand in his hair, or on his chest.

The crowd is eating it up, of course they are – Harry looking like he does, his voice deep and sultry. But Zayn can’t see any of that, his eyes fixed straight ahead on Harry, unblinkingly. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open and the other boys have all noticed and are now openly laughing at him, but he really can’t bring himself to care.

Harry has always been unnervingly sexy, Zayn knows that, hell,  _Harry_  knows that. But this is something else. Harry looks like he’s born to be up on that shitty little stage, fluttering his eyelashes at the audience and grinning widely as it gets to the instrumental section and he goes full into the dancing. If touching himself up and rocking his hips counted as dancing.

“Oi, Zayn, try not to pop one right here, eh? Bit embarrassing for all of us if you did.” Louis bumps his shoulder gently and Zayn slaps him off, grumbling as he gets up from their booth to go to the bar. Niall’s practically in tears he’s laughing so hard.

Zayn orders a tequila shot as Harry starts singing the last section. He’s never actually had tequila before, but now seems like a very good time to start.  
“Chasers?”  
Zayn nods and the bartender sets down a wedge of lime and pours some salt onto the back of his hand.

The alcohol burns down his throat and he chokes on it, sinking his teeth into the wedge of lime and blinking back the tears from the corner of his eyes. He’s distantly aware that Harry’s stopped singing, that there’s an explosion of applause and yells for an encore. His heart’s still pounding a mile a minute and he hastily orders another shot before he has to face his friend again.

“One for me, too.” Harry’s arms loop low on his waist, his chin hooking over his shoulder. “What did you think?”  
Zayn stammers, licking the traces of tequila from his lips. “Haz, you were-  _Incredible._  Fuck.” He laughs shakily. “What are you even doing studying for a history degree when you can sing like that?”  
Harry beams at Zayn’s compliments, his cheeks tinged pink. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs and presses his warm nose into Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn pays for their shots and the bartender grins, Harry distracted as he takes his. “Better keep an eye on your boyfriend,” he warns, nodding to where Harry, one arm still around Zayn’s waist, is talking to an older guy behind them.

“Not my boyfriend,” he replies, perhaps a bit snappier than he meant to be, his stomach twisted up into a knot as he knocks back his second shot. His side feels cold as Harry pulls away, following after the guy to his table without so much as a backwards glance.

He can’t spend anymore time pretending to himself that he’s not attracted to Harry, that he doesn’t like him for more than just the friend, the flatmate, he is to him. But he doesn’t know if he can play this game, be the guy that pines after someone who’ll toy with his heart without even realising he’s doing it.

Zayn returns to their booth with a slump in his shoulders and Liam’s ready for him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Louis and Niall off choosing another song.  
“It’s going to be okay, mate. Whichever way things work out.”  
Zayn nods, even though he’s not so sure.

Harry doesn’t come home with him that night.

***

Zayn doesn’t see Harry again until well into the next day, when the group reconvenes for nachos on Friday – minus Liam, the only one of them to actually manage to drag himself to class that day. His productiveness would terrify them if he didn’t spend most of his class sending them messages about how the smell of the guy in front of him’s cologne was making him want to throw his guts up.

Zayn has no idea how much he drank last night, knocking back shots with the lads because after a certain point it stopped feeling like his oesophagus was on fire. He hadn’t even managed to drag himself into the shower yet today, just jammed a snapback on over his hair, joggers and a sweatshirt and shuffled his way to Teviot.

Louis and Niall are already there, looking similarly worse for the wear. Niall has a bruise on his forehead. “Fell into the corner of my desk on the way in last night,” he murmurs, wincing as he rubs at it.  
“Sucks,” Zayn says sympathetically and sinks into an armchair opposite them.

“Bagsy not going downstairs to order,” Louis mumbles from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt.  
“Me neither,” Zayn and Niall chorus in unison.  
“I’ll go.”

They look up to find Harry beaming at the three of them, looking far too perky, even if he is still wearing his clothes from last night. Zayn thinks he might throw up right there and then, and casts his gaze away from him, fixing it onto the table instead. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Zayn, mate,” Louis says when Harry’s gone, slipping his hood back even though he looks personally offended when the light hits his eyes. He leans across the table and squeezes Zayn’s knee.  
Zayn shrugs him off. “I’m fine, Louis. S’not a big deal, y’know?”

The boys don’t look convinced but they don’t press and pointedly don’t ask Harry about his night when he comes back. Zayn stays quiet, but then Zayn is often quiet, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He sort of wishes Liam were there, even just to have him tell him it was going to be okay, again. Even if he doesn’t believe it.

Their food arrives and Zayn gulps down some water to try and settle his stomach before he eats anything. Harry scoops up a chip covered in cheese and sour cream and holds it up to Zayn’s lips. “Open up.”

“Jesus, Harry, fuck off,” Zayn snaps, pushing his hand away from him and leaning back in the chair, pressing his face into his hand, his stomach lurching. He hadn’t meant to bite at him, not really, it had just slipped out.

Everyone’s gone very quiet, Niall not even eating when he looks up, him and Louis staring at him meaningfully. Harry’s looking at his lap, the offending chip abandoned on a napkin.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn whispers, his shoulders drooping. He slips hand over the back of Harry’s neck and kneads the muscle there. “I’m sorry. Just feeling a bit sick, is all.” It’s not completely a lie.

It breaks the awkward pause, anyway, Niall and Louis going back to eating as Harry turns his eyes onto Zayn. “It’s okay.” He shrugs, biting his lip. Zayn feels him leaning into his touch, Harry’s ankle hooking over his own. “Was just having a bit of fun.”

Zayn smiles tightly.  _Aren’t you always?_

***

Zayn does what he does best: he internalises. He doesn’t treat Harry any differently than before and he doesn’t stop the other from doing the same. He doesn’t push him off when he slips his arms around him and holds on just a little too long, he doesn’t keep Harry’s hands from pressing beneath his sweaters or ask him to stop when his lips brush his neck.

Not even if it feels like sometimes his rib cage is pressing against his lungs so hard that they might crack and fall to pieces. Not even then.

Liam tries to talk to him about it and Zayn just shakes his head, assuring him that he’s fine. Harry’s not the first boy Zayn has gotten a little starry-eyed over who doesn’t return his feelings and he’s sure he won’t be the last.

He just needs time, he tells Liam. And then Louis, when he tries next. And finally Niall, who looks like he never really wanted to have this conversation with him in the first place.

“Right you are, mate. You’ll get back from Christmas break and wonder what you were so hung up on in the first place.”  
Zayn smiles at Niall and lies through his teeth. “Exactly.”

As it is, he doesn’t see much of Harry or any of the boys for a week or two as he throws himself into studying for his winter finals. He assumes the others are doing the same, although more than once he hears Harry stumble back into the flat at bizarre times in the morning. Sometimes, Zayn will hear Harry’s feet stop outside his door before they shuffle on to number 2.

The five of them set a date to go to the Christmas market that’s sprung up at the end of November, the one day available between all of them finishing up for the semester and going home.

It’s bitterly cold out, snow clouds gathering even though nothing more than sleet has actually fallen yet. Zayn’s got two sweaters jammed on underneath his leather jacket (and he’s starting to think what he really needs for Christmas is a bloody winter coat to battle the wind in this city) with a scarf wrapped around his neck and a beanie over his ears. His hair peeks out of the bottom of the hat where it’s growing long, freezing fingers stuffing it back under intermittently.

They’re in good spirits as they walk down the bridge, the pavement not quite big enough for the five of them as they jostle through the crowds. Harry’s cheeks are pink and his laugh makes Zayn smile into his scarf, and for a little while he forgets about it all. Forgets to even be frustrated when Louis, Liam and Niall walk ahead and leave the two of them tagging behind.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry comments, slipping his arm through the crook of Zayn’s elbow where he’s got his hands jammed into his pockets. He says it so casually, as if those three words combined with a gaze flicked at him out of the corner of his eye wouldn’t be enough to send Zayn into a tailspin.  
“Missed you, too, Haz.” He has. He’s missed the smell of his shampoo and the way his fingers feel gently caressing his forearm.

The market is busy, but not oppressively so, not so much that they lose each other in the crowds as they meander past stalls selling candles and gifts and hot cider. It’s Louis who suggests ice skating, even though Zayn has seen how uncoordinated he can be on his feet as it is. Why he wants to add ice and skates to that mix, Zayn has no idea. He only agrees himself so he doesn’t have to stand by the side of the rink for the next hour and freeze to death all alone.

In truth, he hasn’t skated in years and wobbles the second he has the skates on, his knuckles turning white as he clings to the edge of the rink. Harry, unsurprisingly, can literally skate circles around them all. Liam and Louis aren’t doing too badly, while Niall just adopts a sort of stomping around method that makes chips in the ice and the attendees frown and roll their eyes.

“I’ll help you?” It’s a question more than an offer, Harry putting out both hands for Zayn to take. Zayn accepts, because he needs it, sliding his hands over Harry’s, warmer than his own. The rings on their fingers knock together before Harry curls his fingers tightly around Zayn’s wrists to keep him steady.

“Just slide one foot forward, then the other.” Zayn stares down at his feet and tries to do just that, although his legs are stiff and he moves barely anywhere. Harry is patient with him, though, until he can slowly skate forward while the taller slides backwards when necessary.

Zayn makes a noise of panic when Harry lets go of his wrists and skates back a metre or two. Harry chuckles and shakes his head, beckoning him closer. “Come on, I know you can do this.” He smirks in setting Zayn this challenge.

Louis, Liam and Niall are yelling encouragement from where they’ve paused for a drink at the bar in the middle of the rink and Zayn takes a breath, holding it as he puts his weight forward and skates towards Harry. He puts too much force into it, knocking straight into Harry’s chest and letting out the breath with an  _oof._

Harry’s laugh reverberates against Zayn’s chest as his arms close protectively around his body. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Zayn rights himself, but his hands cling to Harry’s arms all the same.  
“Thanks,” Zayn mumbles, looking up at him from under his eyelashes, so close that their noses could bump together.  
“Welcome,” Harry grins, wide enough that his cheeks dimple. He does bump their noses together then, his breath skittering over Zayn’s lips.

Harry’s gaze flickers behind Zayn’s shoulder to the bar. “You’d almost think they planned this.”  
“Uh.” Zayn licks his lips. “Why would they, I mean. What?” He stutters out a laugh.  
“S’all very romantic, isn’t it? Christmas market. Ice skating.” Harry’s gaze is cool and steady, but Zayn can feel his heartbeat where they’re pressed together and it feels anything but.

“But that’d be ridiculous, right?”  
Zayn feels like someone’s dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. “Right,” he mumbles. “Ridiculous.”  
The corner of Harry’s mouth turns down for half a second, but then Zayn blinks and his smile is back, before he gives him a gentle push in the direction of the bar. “Go. I’m just going to do a lap and then I’ll be there.”  
Zayn slips his way over to the bar, a hot cider waiting for him between the boys. 

“Really thought that would work,” Louis says, a bit put out as he watches Harry loop through the families and couples on the ice, his long coat flaring out behind him like a cape.  
“If that was supposed to be subtle, it wasn’t,” Zayn grumbles as he cups the hot cup gratefully between his cold hands, letting the steam tickle his nose. “Just leave it, yeah? It’s not going to work out like that and I don’t want things getting weird.”

Liam opens his mouth as if to protest but Louis cuts him off with a firm shake of his head, and the issue is forgotten when Harry comes over to shake fresh snowflakes from his curls at them. It’s snows hard for the next hour and it’s powdery and doesn’t stick right, but it doesn’t stop Louis from trying to roll snowballs all the way home. And when he eventually grows tired of his fruitless efforts, he just grabs handfuls of it and stuffs it down the back of everyone’s collars, which absolutely no one thanks him for.

They part ways at the end of the bridge, saying their goodbyes until the new year, and Zayn feels it in his bones, how much he’ll miss each of them. Louis hugs him tight and smacks a kiss to his cheek, Niall squeezing his cheeks and murmuring adorations. Liam tells him quietly that he hopes the break does all he needs it to and Zayn thinks he’ll miss his soft words of reassurance the most.

Everyone will just be a phone call away, but that seems infinitely too far.

The boys peel off to the east as Zayn and Harry carry on their way back to the flat. Zayn asks Harry about his Christmas plans, to fill the silence, smiling fondly into the darkness as he chatters about his sister and his mum, Zayn remembering the two women he met that first day in the kitchen.

Even with every feeling Zayn has tightly contained, even with moments that pass fleetingly like the one on the ice, even then things feel so comfortable with Harry. And maybe that’s true strength of their friendship, which Zayn is grateful for above all else. Harry is his best friend and if that’s all he’ll ever get, then so be it. He’d rather that than nothing at all.

They stand facing each other, between doors 2 and 3.

“See you in January, then.” Harry sways on his feet.  
Zayn nods. “Travel safe tomorrow.”  
Harry lets out a swooping breath and pulls him in for a bone-crushing hug. “Get a new coat, for fuck’s sake. You’re freezing.” He chuckles warmly against his ear and Zayn tucks his face into Harry’s neck for a moment, committing to memory the scent of his cologne.

The two boys pull apart and Harry turns to unlock his door. Zayn’s heart skips a beat and he takes a breath, sudden adrenalin pumping into his veins. “Harry?”  
Harry turns and Zayn freezes. He can’t do it.  _I really like you._ He  _can’t_. “Merry Christmas!” He says brightly and then scrambles into his room, the door clicking shut before Harry can even return the sentiment.

***

Zayn hadn’t realised how much he missed home, caught up in everything that Edinburgh is, everything it had become to him. But he has missed it, he’s missed his parents and his sisters even though he’s bickering with them within five minutes of stepping through the door. He’s missed how the curtains in his room don’t quite shut and the smell of his mum’s scented candles in the living room.

His mum hugs him like he’s been missing for a decade, fussing over his hair and rolling her eyes at the tattoos. She puts her hands around his waist and tuts. “You’re too skinny, you’re wasting away,” she declares and immediately hurries to find him something to eat even though Zayn protests.

He has an assignment that’s due after the break but otherwise he tries not to think about uni too much, spending mindless afternoons sketching cartoons on the back of scrap pieces of paper and falling asleep in front of the gas fire.

He tries not to think about Harry, either, although that’s a less successful endeavor.

His mum manages a whole two days before she asks if there’s any boys in his life, curled up next to him on the sofa with a mug warming her hands. He remembers coming out, blurted over the dinner table at an insignificant moment for no reason other than the fact that he was awful at keeping secrets from his family. His mum had quite simply said she knew and asked him if he wanted more pasta. His dad’s always been a little quieter on the subject, Zayn silently wondering whether it would ever be a problem when he walked through that front door with a boy at his side.

His mum’s questions alone he might have been able to bat off, but his sisters join in eagerly.

“What about all these guys you’re friends with that you’re always talking about?” Doniya cocks her head in thought. “Louis?” Zayn scrunches his nose in distaste. “Hm, Liam?” Zayn just looks at her and then shakes his head. He doesn’t know whether he wants her to guess right, just so he can tell them without actually having to tell them.

“Oh.” She grins wickedly. “It’s  _Harry_ , isn’t it?” Zayn’s cheeks heat involuntarily, too fast for him to control it.  
“Harry – the boy from your flat?” His mum asks, before she coos. “He seemed like a lovely young man.”  
“We’re not– He’s not–” Zayn stammers, rubbing a hand over his jaw and his three day stubble. “We’re not, like, anything. ‘cept friends, course. He’s my best mate.”

Trisha wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him into a hug. “Never know what friendship can become, baby.” She kiss his temple fiercely and Zayn lets out a breath.

***

The break passes too slowly, the other side of New Year dragging as Zayn counts down the days until he goes back. Bradford will always be home, but it’s cold and dull and it’s not where he wants to be right now.

It’s some consolation to find that the other boys are feeling much the same, the messages they ping back and forth all along the same lines. Sick of their families pestering them, sick of being treated like kids again even though they’re barely more than, really.

Harry [3rd Jan, 08:34pm]  _Can’t even have a wank in private around here._

Zayn tries not to dwell too much on that idea.

***

Zayn returns to Edinburgh having convinced his mum that he’s put on a little bit of weight, and himself that he has a handle on the Harry situation. He’s not going to be so naive to claim he’s completely over it – over  _him_  – but he has it under control. The lads look as though they want to ask, but they don’t, which Zayn is grateful for. If there’s one thing he’s tired of, it’s rehashing the same hopeless details over with Louis, or Liam.

It’s exactly one day after they’ve returned from their three week winter break that Louis suggests they go away on holiday in February.

“Look, lads, we’ve got a week off and it’s nowhere close to exams, so none of you’ve got any excuses.”  
Liam frowns and flips through the calendar on his phone. “Mate, you know it’s not actually just a holiday week? We’re supposed to be..learning innovatively. Outside of our classes. Or something.”  
Louis snorts. “It’s bullshit, is what it is. Donna – Lisa’s friend, the third year? – said they’ve been doing this week for years and no one ever sticks around, everyone just goes skiing and shit.”  
“No skiing, please,” Niall pleads, making a face. “It’s cold as balls here as it is.”

“Exactly my thought. What we needs, lads, is some vitamin D. A beach and some drinks and sunshine.” Louis drums his hands off the table for effect. “Tenerife. Flights are pretty cheap and my uncle’s mate owns a hotel out there and said we can have a suite with a couple of beds for free as long as we promise not to trash it.”  
“It’s February. Not gonna be  _that_  hot,” Liam points out.  
“Well, unless anyone’s got a couple of thousand quid stashed somewhere for a spontaneous trip to Australia, Tenerife is the best we’re gonna get right now, alright? Are you completely done pissing on my ideas?”

Louis flops back against his chair with a scowl on his face.  
“Tenerife sounds awesome. I’ve got some Christmas money I can use.” Harry beams at him. “Great idea.”  
Louis grunts but looks mildly placated all the same.

Niall and Liam do a quick check of their bank balances and come to the same conclusion, the four of them turning to Zayn. He’d spent all his extra money on getting two new tattoos, at a shitty little parlor in Bradford that had smelt as sketchy as it looked. “Uh, yeah, I should be getting some money for my birthday, which is next week. So, all good. Let’s do it.”

Four sets of eyes turn from curious to furious in point two seconds. “Your  _birthday?!_ When were you going to mention that it’s your birthday next week?” Louis cries exasperatedly.

“S’not a big deal or nothing.” Zayn rubs the back of his neck. “We didn’t do anything for your birthday. I didn’t even remember to text you ‘til like eleven at night. And we missed Liam’s and Niall’s, technically.”  
“Yeah, because you hadn’t met us yet,” Niall retorts.  
“And everyone was with their families on mine, so I can forgive you all even though personally I think my birthday should be the priority,” Louis adds.

“Mine’s in February,” Harry comments. “So, there you go.”  
Louis gestures to Harry. “Now, there is how you tell your mates when your birthday is coming up, Zayn. Take note.”  
Zayn rolls his eyes. “I don’t expect anything, like. You can each buy me a beer if you want.”

Louis gets to his feet and stomps out of the common room to his room, muttering something about Zayn being an “insufferable twat”.  
“Don’t mind him,” Liam says, once the door’s swung shut behind him. “Been in a mood ever since he woke up and realised he’d missed breakfast.”

***

The birthday doesn’t get mentioned again so Zayn assumes the topic is dropped. It’s not that he dislikes his birthday, but he’s one of four kids. They were never a big thing, really. A family dinner, a small party with his school friends. No extravagant gifts, no elaborate surprises. Zayn is good with that. He doesn’t need to be the centre of attention, it can be a bit–  _Much._ He wouldn’t mind some cake. Cake’d be nice.

It’s not the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up on the 21st, pushing his hair back from where it’s tickling his eyes with a groan. He needs a haircut – he’ll add that to the list of things he can’t afford right now, thanks to the holiday and saving a chunk for a deposit for a flat. Harry had offered to trim it for him, but that seems dangerous. It can wait.

Zayn stumbles to the kitchen, cursing when he bumps his elbow off the door as he shoves it open. He drags his eyes fully open and all he sees is a flash of Harry’s grinning face before streams of coloured paper flood his vision as four party poppers are thrust at him simultaneously.

The boys launch into a loud chorus of happy birthday, Zayn not quite processing even when Louis scoops up a handful of birthday cake and smears it over Zayn’s face. Not exactly what he’d had in mind, he thinks as he licks cake from his lips.

“Morning,” he mumbles, taking the wet tea towel Liam passes him and wiping off his face. “I told you, you didn’t need to–”  
“Shut up and just enjoy it,” Louis chirps, swinging himself back onto one of the seats next to the counter and grabbing a croissant from the array of food that’s been organised. By Harry, no doubt, who is smiling at Zayn, all dimples and bright eyes.

“I love it,” Zayn tells Harry in a murmur, because he knows that’s exactly what he wants to hear. Not that he  _doesn’t_ , it makes his heart warm and flutter against his ribcage. That he has people in his life so insistent on doing things like this, even when he doesn’t ask it of them.

There’s pastries and pancakes and an array of toppings, as well as the cake that no one touches now that it has a big chunk knocked out of it the size of Louis’ hand. Harry mixes up mimosas into five chipped mugs that they can just about dig up between his and Zayn’s collections, and they cheers to the birthday boy, clinking them together and making cheap bubbly fizz out over the sides.

Niall’s bought him a bottle of whisky, with a bow tacked to the side of the neck, Louis and Liam having pooled funds together to get him a silver plated lighter with his initials, ZJM, engraved into the side. It feels heavy against his palm, catching the fluorescent kitchen lights, infinitely more grown up than the pink Bic lighter he has stashed in the pocket of his coat.  
Zayn flicks the lighter on a few times, watching as it burns up, flame tinged with blue. “Cheers, lads.” He grins.

Harry bumps his shoulder into his own. “Couldn’t wrap my present, exactly, but you’ll get it later.” His breath is warm against Zayn’s cheek and their bodies are pressed tightly together, side to side, and he has to stop heat from rushing up the back of his neck.  
“‘Kay,” Zayn mumbles, tearing his eyes away from Harry and glancing over at Louis who looks like he’s holding back on a wealth of innuendos, Liam’s fingers curled around his forearm tightly in warning. Zayn gives them a small smile.  _S’fine._

The present turns out to be nothing in the realms of Zayn’s imagination – and that includes Harry, and just Harry, reaching to pull him closer, his lips ghosting over Zayn’s, murmuring what a fool he’d been. Zayn thinks on it too long, as he showers after breakfast, long enough that his stomach plummets with an unfair sense of disappointment when Harry takes him over to the art college across the road and pulls out a key with a ribbon tied to the end.

Unfair to Harry, not to him. He thought he was okay now. He  _is_. He is okay. He nods at Harry who’s dangling the key in front of a closed, nondescript white door with an excitable smile clearly itching to break out over his lips.

It’s so far out of the realms of Zayn’s imagination he can’t even think how Harry has accomplished this, the neat little cube of a room, with wide windows letting the midday sun in. Each wall is white, the floor too, the middle of the room stacked up with piles of different spray paints, and two big tins of white paint.

“A third year art student owed me a favor,” Harry shrugs, that smile breaking free as he leads Zayn into the room. “Doesn’t need his project space because he has a spare room at his flat. Thought you could…” Harry trails off, gesturing to the paints. “Do your thing. I saw the way you looked at that mural, way back.” He leans down and taps the top of the white paint pot. “And when you get tired and want to start fresh, you just paint over and start again.”

Zayn blinks. “I,” he says and then launches himself at Harry, hugging him tight. It’s nothing he ever would have thought to ask for, because it’s nothing he’s ever thought he’d be able to do. His mum would never let him spray paint at home, not even in his room, not even when he _begged_  her to let him do just one wall. Hadn’t even thought about it in Edinburgh, not when he’d be jumping from rented accommodation to rented accommodation for at least the next few years of his life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, Harry’s hand fitting into the curve of his spine and falling to his lower back.  
“Don’t thank me.” Harry pulls back and runs a hand down Zayn’s neck. “Just paint. I want to watch.”

It becomes habit, from that first day. Afternoons, weekends, Zayn goes over to his room to paint, hours in which he’ll maybe do no more than a little corner of one wall, watching as the colours merge and dry against the blank wall. Harry comes too, says he likes to watch Zayn work, not bothered by the fumes since they can prop open the windows when it gets stagnant and heavy, even though it’s cold out. He brings a book sometimes, lies on his tummy in the middle of the floor and turns the pages slowly, constantly distracted by the curve of Zayn’s back where he’s hunched over his work.

***

The inside of a plane is smaller than Zayn had expected – he feels claustrophobic the second he ducks through the door. Harry sits next to Zayn because he wouldn’t let anyone else, could tell that Zayn was nervous about his first time flying. Their little cramped seats of two on either side, Niall and Louis across the aisle from them, Liam volunteering to take the solo in front.

Zayn curls his fingers around the arms of the chair, swallowing roughly. The whirring of the engine is clogging up his ears, the air smells stale and the clasp of the belt is digging into his lower stomach.

“Hey.” Harry rubs his hand over Zayn’s forearm and down to his own hand, laying it flat over the top. “It’s totally safe. I’ve been on planes loads of times! And it’s only an hour or two, anyway.”

An hour of two sounds like a pretty long time to be stuck inside this hollow tube of a death trap in Zayn’s opinion, but he just nods, his jaw tight. Harry slides his fingers between Zayn’s and grips his hand tight, where it’s still clamped to the arm. He doesn’t move it for the entire flight, not even when Zayn starts muttering about feeling sick during take-off, not even when Harry falls asleep against his shoulder. His head lolls against Zayn’s chest and somehow that’s what makes him feel lighter, less like the bottom of the plane is about to drop out, them with it.

If the flight is surreal, it’s nothing compared to the trip. None of the boys have been away without their families, the freedom like a drug, sending them into overdrive. They go hard at night, cocktails and vodka mixers from the insides of watermelons, one or more of them ending the night with their head in a bush as the others sit nearby chomping on pizza dripping in grease and hoping they won’t end up with a similar fate.

During the days, they lounge on the beach or by the pool, Zayn just dipping his toe into the water, not at all tempted by the boys who jump right in and splash him recklessly. Niall offers to teach him to swim, but between his careless grin and the beer he’s got in one hand, Zayn declines.

It’s only five days – four, really, since they’d arrived so late on their first day. Four days counted in shots taken and how many girls Niall manages to score out on the dance floor. Zayn keeps waiting for Harry to pull, waiting for it to hit like a punch to his gut, tries to prepare himself for it.

So when he disappears from the group on their last night, Zayn’s ready. He has a tequila shot with his name on it, the glass to his lips when Louis nudges his shoulder.

“He’s at the beach.” He points through the window of the shitty little seaside bar to the tall, lean figure that is Harry, silhouetted against the sea with the moon shining down on him.

“You could at least go make sure he doesn’t drown.” Louis looks at him steadily and takes a sip of his drink.  
Zayn flails. “Can’t even swim, not much use there.”  
Louis growls and grabs his shoulder, shoving him towards the door. “Just  _go_.”

Zayn sighs and fumbles with the bottom of his t-shirt that’s stuck to his back. The night air is cooler but the inside of the bar was oppressively hot, the breeze a grateful kiss to his skin. His feet slip into the sand as he makes his way over, Harry looking up when he hears his huffing and puffing.

“Hi,” Harry murmurs, reaching for his hand. Zayn can see his toes wriggling in the wet sand, his ankles sinking further as the tide washes over them, and he hesitates. Harry chuckles. “Come on, the tide’s not going to get you from here,” he teases. “I won’t let it.”

Zayn finally relents, kicking off his shoes before slipping his hand tightly into Harry’s and coming to stand beside him. They don’t speak for a moment, watching how the moon hits the top of the gentle waves. They crash lightly, but louder than the distant sound of the bars and clubs.

“Have you had fun?”  
Zayn shrugs. “Dunno if it’s really my kind of place but it was nice getting away. With my boys.” He grins and giggles. He’s a little drunk, he realises, as he watches his own feet sinking underneath the sand. He’s stuck. “I’m stuck.”  
Harry rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re fine.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Are we? Your boys, I mean?”

Zayn looks at him in surprise. “Course. All of you. You’re all so,  _so_  important to me. Every one of you.” He knows he shouldn’t say it but– “Specially you.” Harry turns to him fully, dragging his feet out of the sand so he’s not all twisted up. “Because, you know, you were– First friend I made and all that.” Zayn snaps his jaw shut. He’s digging a hole.

“Specially me,” Harry repeats in a whisper and, of course, that’s what he’d pick up on. “Specially me?”  
“Yeah, like I said–”  
“No.” Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s not, you don’t.” He laughs, running a hand over his face. “Oh, fuck it.”

Zayn frowns – it’s not unusual for Harry to not make much sense but this is bewildering him – and Harry’s lips are plump against his, his hands against his chest. Zayn is pretty sure he lets out an undignified squeak but if Harry hears, he doesn’t react or seem to mind. His hands slide up to the back of his neck and into his hair, dragging Zayn closer as he licks into his mouth.

Harry tastes like cherries and booze, sweet and sharp. And  _hot_ , so hot, everything is just the heat of him, his breath in his mouth, their chests flush together, Harry’s fingers working into the back of Zayn’s neck. “Wanted to do that for so long,” Harry mumbles against his lips and, no,  _no_ , Zayn thinks, he is not done with kissing Harry yet.

“Just shut  _up_ ,” Zayn whines and he’s the one that brings their lips together this time, sucking Harry’s lower one into his mouth. His teeth nip at the soft flesh and Harry moans, the sound going straight to Zayn’s cock. Zayn’s hand slips down Harry’s back and cups his ass because – because he can _, fuck._  Their hips rock together through their thin shorts and Zayn’s skin feels like it’s on fire, adrenalin firing through his veins. Better than any high he’s ever had, better than every cigarette.

_Harry, Harry, Harry._

They giggle as they tug their feet free from the sand, teeth and lips knocking together as Harry tugs them up the beach to where it’s dry. Zayn’s back hits the sand with a soft thump, sand scattering around him and flying into his hair, down the back of his t-shirt. Harry straddles his thighs and he looks so achingly beautiful that Zayn can’t help but shudder. The moon behind his head like a halo over his curls, his eyes dark, his lips swollen and red. From Zayn. That’s because of  _Zayn._

Zayn rubs his fingers over the inside of Harry’s thigh and he shifts, their cocks jerking together.  
“Fuck, Haz, you. S’all you, always,” Zayn mumbles, dragging him down with a hand in his hair to kiss him again. Sand is scratching against Zayn’s bare legs as Harry kicks it around, his hips rolling down purposefully.

“Ye-yes, Harry, please.” Zayn swallows and tries to get him to do that again, pressing the heel of his palm against Harry’s lower back pointedly.  
Harry hums and sits up a bit, glancing around them at the beach.  _It’s fucking deserted!_  Zayn wants to scream and he supposes this wasn’t ever how he pictured his first time with Harry going, his first  _time_  as it is. But his cock is aching between his legs and he’s scared, so scared that if they leave this beach the illusion will shatter and all that has just happened will cease to be.

“Lot of sand,” Harry comments, dragging his fingers through it to emphasise the point. He stands up and brushes himself off and Zayn lets out a grunt of frustration, his head tipping back into the sand, not even caring if he ends up with it in his hair anymore. Harry huffs out a laugh at him and pulls him to his feet. “Come on,” he murmurs, nudging the tips of their noses together. “Boys will be a while, won’t they? Two perfectly good beds in our suite.”

Zayn’s breath catches in his throat as he nods shakily, letting Harry tug him down the beach, the two of them only just remembering to scoop up their shoes before they’re tumbling over one another in their haste. Harry. Bed. Room. Together.  _Harry_. The words are reverberating against his chest, thick and fast, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He wants him, and that’s nothing new, but it feels more intense now. Now that he knows how he tastes on his tongue, knows how his hands feel when they’re reaching for him, knows how he feels hard against him.

Harry manages to get the door open without too much struggle, tossing the key to the table and not even sparing it a second glance when it slips off the edge onto the floor. Zayn’s back hits the bed and Harry’s on his knees, spreading Zayn’s thighs. He sits up enough to get his t-shirt off, Harry sweeping off his shorts and briefs in one go, letting out a breathy noise that has goosebumps racing out over Zayn’s skin.

Harry wastes no time in sliding his tongue up the underside of Zayn’s cock, sucking the head into his mouth, his green eyes flickering up to watch him as he does. Zayn’s hands are twitching against the sheets, panting roughly. He’s not going to last long, not with how new and exciting and  _amazing_  it feels, not with how Harry teased him on the beach.

He wants to warn him, feels like he should, but he can’t get any sound out of his mouth that isn’t just a whimper, his hand flying into Harry’s curls as he feels the tip of his cock bump against the back of his throat.  
 _“Harry_ , _”_  he cries and he’s coming, the relentless pressure of Harry’s mouth not letting up until he’s shaking against the sheets, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

Everything is hazy, his vision coming in and out as he watches Harry sit up. His lips are flushed and wet, Zayn’s cock giving a twitch where it’s spent against his thigh. “Fuck, I.” Zayn licks his lips and takes a breath, filling his lungs with oxygen. “Harry,” he whispers. Like he’s relearned his name tonight, like it’s different on his tongue now.

He presses Harry down against the sheets, rolling them over and reaching for the button on his shorts. “You don’t have to,” Harry murmurs, although his head tips back with a breathy whine as Zayn slips a hand under the waistband of his boxers and presses against the length of his cock. “If you don’t want.”

“I want,” Zayn breathes out against his hip, kissing over the v-shape of his hips as he pulls his shorts and boxers down to his knees. He stares at Harry’s cock a moment before wrapping his hand experimentally around the base and giving it a tug. Precum dribbles out of the top and Harry shifts against the bed. Zayn licks at the head, teasing the tip before taking just a bit into his mouth.

It’s heady, Harry thick and heavy against his tongue. Zayn sucks in a breath through his nose and takes him a little deeper, jerking the rest of him with his hand. It’s a bit sloppy, probably – he can feel spit dripping down his chin and he’s sure that the rhythm of his hand isn’t the same as what his mouth is doing.

But Harry’s so responsive, moaning and jerking beneath him. His thighs spread out wide, fingers scratching over Zayn’s bare shoulder and up his neck as he pulls him down further. Zayn feels tears spring up at the corners of his eyes and he tries not to gag, the pressure of Harry’s hand lessening, apologies falling quietly on his ears.

“S’okay, liked it,” Zayn mumbles, his cheeks flushing, as he pulls back to wipe spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Again, you can– Do it again.” He sinks back down over his cock and groans around him as he feels Harry pressing him down. His mouth stuffed full of Harry’s cock, he flicks his gaze up to him and meets Harry’s own, dark and heavy lidded, before he’s coming down the back of his throat.

He does choke, then, coughing as he sits up and petting Harry’s hip. “Sorry,” he murmurs in a raspy tone, stray streaks of come streaking Harry’s thigh.  
Harry chuckles breathlessly, pulling him down to kiss him. “Don’t you dare apologise.” He grins against his lips, licking the taste of him from his tongue before letting Zayn sink into his side.

“Never done that before,” Zayn admits quietly, a proud grin creeping onto his face.  
Harry snorts, stroking his fingers through his hair. Zayn’s eyelids sag, weariness washing over his sated limbs. “Don’t believe you,” Harry murmurs, and then Zayn’s out.

***

“Zayn.” A sigh. “Zayn, mate. Come on.”  
Zayn blinks his eyes open, tipping his head to one side to see Liam hovering over the bed. He registers vaguely that he’s naked beneath the thin sheets and tugs them more firmly around his waist. “Whatimesit?”

“About eight,” Liam replies apologetically. “But we’ve got to get the bus in an hour or we’ll miss our flight.”  
Zayn nods and stretches out an arm, expecting to wrap it around Harry’s chest, pull him in for a cheeky kiss, even if the boys are all milling around. But all he hits is cool sheets, right as far as his fingers curve around the edge of the bed.

He sits up slowly, looking past where Liam’s stuffing things into his suitcase to the other room, Louis and Niall slowly tugging on clothes. He can vaguely hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom between the two bedrooms. “Harry in the shower?”

Liam looks up and nods. “He was asleep in the other room when we got back. Louis slept with him, I slept on the sofa. Niall passed out on the floor.” He nods through the doorway; Niall is rubbing at the base of his spine with a pained looking expression.

Zayn doesn’t reply, just swings his legs out of the bed and toes his underwear over to him, pulling them on underneath the sheet before standing up properly. Liam watches this all in silence, his eyes noting where the rest of Zayn’s clothes are scattered next to the bed.  
“Zayn.” He looks up. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”

Zayn glances down at his hands, which are wobbling in front of him. Maybe he’s still drunk. He certainly feels like he wants to throw up. “Just tired,” he lies, flashing Liam a smile that’s more of a grimace. He pulls on his clothes, glancing towards the door of the bathroom every few seconds. Finally, the water shuts off and Harry emerges, towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water easing down over his chest.

“Morning,” Zayn calls out, one word sending his heart kicking up into overdrive.  
Harry looks at him blankly, nodding. “Morning,” he says flatly, going into the other room and shutting the door behind him.  
Zayn stares at the closed door and sinks down onto the end of the bed, not even registering that there are tears streaming silently down his cheeks until Liam wraps an arm tightly around his shoulders.

“Want to tell me what happened?”  
Zayn shakes his head sharply and scrambles to his feet. “Gonna be sick,” he mutters and promptly throws up into the toilet bowl.

There can’t be anything left in his stomach by the time they get on the bus but Zayn still feels nauseous. Harry won’t look at him, won’t talk to him beyond saying he hopes he feels better soon and passing him a bottle of water. He sits with Louis and curls into his side, laughing with him, falling asleep on his shoulder on the plane.

Zayn doesn’t sleep, trying to fix his gaze to the words written on the back of the seat in front of him to keep from watching Harry.

_Please fasten your seatbelt._

_Life vest is located under your seat._

He is nothing more than another boy to Harry. Another body. Another night. A bit of fun, on holiday, with the lads. Zayn retches again but shakes his head when Liam offers him a sick bag. “M’fine, m’okay,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the back of the seat in front.

Liam’s hand is a reassuring weight against his shoulder. He can hear Niall whispering to him from the row behind, asking if Zayn’s okay, if he can help. Louis passes a packet of gum across the aisle, which Liam offers but Zayn just shakes his head again.

He takes another breath and then sits up, focusing on just remembering to breath in and out, as dry as the air inside of the plane is. He almost wants to laugh, to turn to Harry and tell him that at least he isn’t scared of the plane when he’s too busy hating himself for letting Harry use him as just another success story.

“We saw you two kissing on the beach last night,” Liam says quietly. “We lost you after that. Did you go back to the hotel?” Zayn nods. “Did you– You don’t have to tell me.”  
Zayn swallows. “Uh. To some extent, yeah?” He rubs a hand over his face, winces as his palm scratches against his stubble.  
“Had you ever, before?”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, no. He takes a moment and then steals a glance at Liam from the corner of his eye. He expects pity, enough to send his stomach churning again, but instead all that’s written over Liam’s features is anger. Set into his jaw, his eyes burning with it. Liam wraps his arm around him tightly and presses his lips to his temple.

“You deserve so much better, Zayn,” he whispers fiercely. “You do.”

***

The week after they’re back from Spain is lined up with flat viewings, coloured post-it’s stuck to Zayn’s bookshelf to remind him of each one. Montague Street on Monday, Warrender Park Road on Tuesday, Forrest Road on Thursday, Clerk Street on Friday. Five bed flats, for Zayn and his boys. Zayn, and his boys, and Harry.

Liam’s in charge of the details, been the one since mid-January who’s been calling around letting agents to get them in places, making appointments and making sure he knows how they sign when the time comes. Zayn spends a lot of time with Liam, stays over with him at Turner even though it’s miles further from campus than his flat is.

Louis won’t talk to him about the Harry situation, not that Zayn wants to talk about it at all, not even a subject he broaches with Liam much. Louis says he doesn’t want to take sides, doesn’t want to lose either of them. Looks him in straight in the eye and says that if this is going to make living together a problem, then he needs to saying something now. Zayn shakes his head firmly. He’ll be fine. Harry’s clearly fine – the rare nights Zayn is in their flat, Harry isn’t. He’s not giving up his boys because of Harry  _fucking_  Styles.

Even though it hurts, so much worse than it did before. It hurts because he knows what it feels like to have Harry look at him like he’s hung the moon, as much as he knows what it feels to have him look at him when he has his cock in his mouth. He knows it all now, from the level of intimacy they’d had in their friendship to the physical intimacy they’d shared in that one night. It’s like a dead weight in Zayn’s stomach, dragging around with him as he tries to find a way to forget that he knows all of those things.

On Thursday, they find The One. The flat. Five generously sized bedrooms, complimented by a kitchen, a living room and two bathrooms. Wooden floors and high ceilings, rustic light fittings and old oak window shutters. It’s gorgeous and it’s cheap and it’s practically on the doorstep to campus. They sign the lease and go out for a drink to celebrate.

Zayn leaves the group at the door to the pub. He doesn’t feel like celebrating, or drinking for that matter. Hasn’t touched a drop since they got back, although he’s been smoking enough that he feels drunk off the nicotine alone some days. His hands shaking by the time he makes it to his afternoon class where Louis fixes him with a look and tells him maybe it’s time he cut back a bit. Louis, who can chain smoke two packs in a day when he’s hit crunch time on an assignment. How ironic.

Niall seems oblivious to the whole thing. He pouts at Zayn when he says he’s going to go to the studio to paint rather than to come for a drink, gives him a big hug and says they’ll get a beer together soon,  _roomie._  Bounds off to Harry and swings an arm around him, unaware of everything that’s settling over their group, poison slipping into the cracks that are forming.

Harry looks up and catches Zayn’s eye, then looks away again. Zayn turns on his heel and starts walking towards the studio, Harry’s expression planted into his mind. Upset. He’d looked  _upset._  Like it was Zayn’s fault.

“My fucking fault I thought you could ever like me, my fucking fault for falling for you, my fucking fault for thinking I ever had a chance,” he mutters as he walks, rootling in his pockets for a cigarette and coming up with nothing but an empty packet. He growls and throws it to the ground with more venom than probably necessary. He passes a couple of girls who raise their eyebrows and steer a clear circle away from him.

He falls asleep in the studio that night, curled up on the hard floor with his painting watching over him. It’s Harry, curls and green eyes and quirked lips. The Harry who had once been his but never really been his at all.

It’s Louis that wakes him up the next morning, holding a thermos of tea in his hands, a packet of digestive biscuits sticking out of his jacket pocket. He sits down on the floor and crosses his legs, pouring out the tea into two little plastic cups and tearing open the biscuits. He looks up at the painting and then at Zayn, and sighs.  
“You need to talk to him.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. His mouth tastes rotten, his neck is cricked and he can’t have slept more than a few hours as it is. He doesn’t know how Louis expects him not to pour the tea over his head with that statement. “He hasn’t spoken to me since Saturday night in Tenerife.”  
“Have you tried?” Louis bites back, pushing a plastic up at him.

Zayn sighs and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “He all but runs the other direction when he so much as sees me.”  
“Because he feels like shit.”  
“He  _should._  He knew– He must have known how I felt about him. How I  _feel_  about him. And he still. Like I meant nothing.”  
“You meant more. But I shouldn’t be the one telling you this.” Louis stuffs a digestive into his mouth. “Talk to him,” he mumbles, spraying crumbs all over the floor. Zayn makes a face.

“Look. We care about you, and Harry. All of us. We hate seeing you like this.” Zayn opens his mouth to interject but Louis holds a hand up. “This isn’t about the flat, we can fucking figure that shit out. This isn’t even about our group even though I hate that I feel like I can’t hang out with you and Harry at the same time anymore. You two, you’re best friends. Out of all of us. Even if nothing else ever works out, isn’t that important? Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Of course it means something, Louis! And I’ve tried, I tried so hard to pretend. I could have kept doing it, too. But he kissed  _me._  He pulled  _me._ ” Zayn shrugs, a sad smile pressing into his features. “And I was too far gone to say no even when I probably knew deep down it was only going to hurt.”

Louis shakes his head. “That’s not what you thought. That night. You thought things would be different. You thought he liked you.  _That’s_  what hurt.”  
Zayn barks out a bitter laugh and gets to his feet. “Yeah, who’s the idiot, right? Who’s the idiot who fell for Harry Styles’ charm when he knows it better than anyone?”  
“You’re not an idiot, Zayn. Just promise me you’ll talk to him.”

Zayn slams the door shut behind him.

***

Zayn does talk to Harry, but it’s not really by choice. When he gets back to the flat, Harry is sitting on his bed. “How did you get in here?”  
Harry rubs the back of his neck. “You forgot to lock it yesterday, I guess. Tried the door when you weren’t answering.”  
Zayn hovers, very aware that he’s still in his clothes from yesterday, his eyes probably bloodshot, hair like a crow’s nest. “Did you need something?”

Harry blinks, opening his mouth then snapping it shut again. He looks like he could burst into tears at any moment and it’s making Zayn’s lungs constrict. “Just tell me how to fix this, Zayn,” he whispers, and the tears do start falling them. “Just tell me what to do because I miss you so much and I hate this.”

“You can’t always just  _fix_  things when you fuck up, Harry! I’m a real person, with real feelings, that you  _really_  hurt. You can’t just fix that.” Zayn tugs his fingers through his hair. “I think you should go, Harry.”

Harry stands up and grabs onto Zayn’s biceps. “No, Zayn, I’m not going anywhere until you let me in again.” He’s shaking, Zayn can feel it in his hands. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I kissed you and I’m sorry that I let things go as far as they did that night without being sure of where you stood. And I thought staying away from you after would be easier and then you were so sick and angry, I  _knew_  you were regretting it. You were drunk and I took advantage of that because I wanted you so badly. I’m sorry.” He snuffles and looks at Zayn. “But I won’t apologise for falling for you, even if you don’t feel the same.”

Zayn freezes, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth. “What?”  
Harry swallows. “I mean, you know. You  _know.”_  
“No, Harry, I don’t know. Please. Please tell me.”  
“I’m. A little bit in love with you.”  
Zayn smiles, despite himself. “Just a little bit?”

Harry’s cheeks flare with colour; he looks confused. “Maybe a big bit, but it doesn’t matter, because you don’t–”  
“Just shut up,” Zayn whispers and kisses him, cupping his face tight in his hands as he tastes Harry. No alcohol today, no cherries, no heat or beach or sea salt. Just Harry. “You’re such an idiot, Haz.”

There’s a scuffling noise outside the door, a grunt, and then the door swings open, Louis, Niall and Liam toppling into a heap in Zayn’s doorway.  
“Told you you just had to talk to one another! Didn’t I tell you both?” Louis cries enthusiastically – or, as enthusiastic as he can be when he’s got Liam’s elbow jammed into his ribs and Niall crushing his back.

Zayn blinks and turns back to Harry. “I take it back, they’re the idiots.”  
Harry chuckles and tucks his head into Zayn’s shoulder. “Your boys.” He looks up at him from under his eyelashes. “As long as I’m your best boy.”  
Zayn grins lazily and tilts his chin up to kiss him again, throwing his middle finger up to the doorway as three sounds of disgust start up.

***

Their first year draws to a frighteningly fast close: classes end, exams season starts, and the weather finally warms up to taunt everyone stuck inside the library until the early hours of the morning. It’s over as soon as it begins and the end of May brings the promise of their new flat.

Five sets of keys, handed out to each of them. They drag their possessions, stuffed into suitcases and carrier bags, from their halls to the flat, complaining about the three flights of stone stairs to each other as the heat makes their shirts stick to their skin. They quickly learn they don’t even have enough forks for all five of them, given that Liam, Louis and Niall had been living in catered accommodation all year, and head out to set up a disposable barbecue at the foot of the Meadows instead.

They fry burgers and sausages; marshmallows when the sun starts to dip. Harry shivers as the cooler evening air comes in and lies down with his head in Zayn’s lap. Zayn cards his fingers through Harry’s curls and watches his eyes flutter closed, while the other boys argue over the last sausage, even though it’s got melted marshmallow stuck to one end.

Summer belongs to them, the impossible stretch of days ahead of them. Of barbecues and bickering, of trips to Ikea to buy at least some more forks, of getting drunk, of getting high. Of fighting with Harry, because it’s only been a couple of months but it does happen, until they get tired of fighting and Zayn’s mouth is too preoccupied elsewhere.

Louis relents the sausage to Niall and then looks around them, lifting his bottle of cider to the group. “To us, boys. Not quite adults, not quite children, but generally doing alright.”  
Zayn chuckles and lifts his bottle, the five necks clinking together. “To generally doing alright.”  
Harry smiles and closes his eyes again, pressing his face into Zayn’s thigh. “Here, here.”

***

_Three months later_

Zayn wakes up to Harry’s mouth on his neck. He’s tracing out the marks he left there last night with the softest brush of his lips, his hand skating over Zayn’s stomach, chest pressed up against his back. “Good morning,” Zayn murmurs. Harry’s hand dips lower and rubs over his hip, fingernails scratching lightly. Harry’s cock pushes hard against the curve of his ass.

Zayn had gone home for a couple of weeks of August, despite Harry’s protests about missing the festival season.  _Next year, Haz._  And he’d certainly been welcomed back, the other boys barely getting a chance to say hello before Harry had him pressed down in his bed with his tongue in his mouth.

“Thinking about me, I hope?” Harry teases against his ear as Zayn’s cock twitches against his wrist.  
“Always,” Zayn breathes out. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against Harry’s shoulder. “About last night.”

 _“Harry,_ Haz _, wait.”  
_ _Harry huffed and pulled back from his cock with an obscene pop. “Unless something’s on fire, I really don’t care right now.”  
_ _Zayn took a breath and placed a hand against his cheek. “I want you to fuck me.”_

Harry groans and grinds the length of his cock between Zayn’s ass cheeks. “Yeah?”  
“Fuck,” Zayn grits out, pushing back against it. He wonders if he’d still be open enough for Harry to fuck him right now, right like this. Maybe not after his first time. Maybe next time.  _Next time._

Zayn bucks into Harry’s hand as he starts stroking his cock, still fucking his cock between his ass cheeks even though it’s dry and rough. “Could you come just like that?”  
“Definitely,” Harry mumbles. “Close already.” He starts jerking Zayn faster until he’s crying out with it, the head of Harry’s cock just catching on his entrance.  
Harry comes against the small of his back and Zayn’s following, spilling over Harry’s fist, still rocking slowly between his boyfriend’s hand and his cock.

“Love you,” Zayn drawls, tilting his head back to catch his lips in a messy kiss.  
Harry chuckles, nudging their noses together and opening his eyes. “Love you t– What’s that?”

Zayn blinks lazily, making a noise of protest as Harry scampers out of bed to pick up the piece of paper stuck underneath the door to his bedroom. He brings it back and flips it open, grinning as he shows it to Zayn.

_By order of King Louis:_

_Knights Harry and Zayn are not permitted to have sexual relations in Harry’s room (i.e. the room next to King Louis’). Instead, they must perform all sexual acts in Zayn’s room (i.e. furthest from King Louis’ room). Effective immediately._

Louis’ signature finishes the royal command, a smudge of strawberry jam on the corner.

“Get me a pen, I want to write back,” Zayn murmurs with a lazy grin.

Harry hums, before his lips quirk up in the corner. “I have a better idea.”  
Zayn raises an eyebrow, watching as Harry gets up again, this time throwing open the door. “Babe, you’re not even wearing–” He groans and shakes his head as Harry prances off, stark naked, to Louis’ room.

Zayn listens through the, admittedly very thin, wall, the sound of Louis’ door opening and footsteps across the room.  
“Harold Edward Styles, get your naked bits  _out_  of my bedroom!”  
Paper ripping, and then Harry’s voice. “That’s what we think of your royal order!”  
“Anarchy!” Louis cries.  _“Zayn,_  your boyfriend’s waggling his penis at me! Make him stop!”

Zayn buries his face into the pillow and explodes into laughter, similar sounds coming from Liam and Niall’s rooms. Zayn’s shoulders are still shaking when Harry returns and suggests a very loud round two to complete this morning’s performance.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've read a lot of 1D university au's that I absolutely adore, but the majority of them are set in America, so I was desperate to pull them back over here and throw them into my university environment. Because being a student in Edinburgh is absolutely magical and there is no two ways around that.
> 
> Anyway – that said, hope you liked it and please do leave me feedback/comments here or over on tumblr! Much loves!


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